Octavian’s patience was threadbare. Another day wasted on imbeciles who wouldn’t know an omen from a smear of bird droppings. The gods had been infuriatingly cryptic, as usual, and his back ached from hours spent kneeling before Jupiter’s altar, prying meaning from the mutilated remains of the teddy bears: his latest sacrifices. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he stepped down from the temple, exhaling sharply.

And then, there you was there.

Standing at the bottom of the steps, a cup in hand, looking at him like he was something more than the sum of his duties—more than Camp Jupiter’s augur, more than the expectations weighing on his shoulders. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and something warm and sweet drifted through the air, and for the first time that day, he wasn’t annoyed.

“You look terrible,” you teased, offering the drink.

Octavian scoffed, though his fingers wrapped around the cup almost instinctively. The warmth seeped into his skin, soothing in a way he wouldn’t acknowledge aloud. He took a careful sip, letting the spices settle on his tongue, the heat curling in his chest.

“Hmph.” He tilted his chin, feigning indifference. “At least someone in this camp has the sense to provide me with proper sustenance.” A pause. Then, a glance at you over the rim of the cup, softer now. “I suppose I’ll tolerate your presence a little longer.”

It was the closest thing to thank you you were going to get—but the way he lingered beside you, the way his free hand ghosted near yours, was enough to say the rest.